One of Each of Us
by KCS
Summary: H/C fic written for a LiveJournal community.  Five times Bones comforted Jim, and one time Jim returned the favor.  Full summary and details regarding title inside. Set immediately post-XI movie era through a projected second five-year mission.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: One of Each of Us (1/6)  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: AOS/XI/Reboot  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, McCoy, various including Spock and the ever-present Cupcake  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13 for eventual off-screen character death and serious angst  
><strong>Word Count this chapter<strong>: 3849  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: Basic movie spoilers referenced here and there. Shameless H/C – SHAMELESS, I tell you! Read at your peril. :P Also warning for references to TOS episodes and off-screen (and non-AOS) character death. You'll find no ship but friendship and little to no profanity in my fics, even in the Rebooted universe, so rely on your own imagination if you require either of those.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Five times Bones comforted Jim, and one time Jim returned the favor  
><strong>AN**: Written for the LiveJournal community **StarTrekReverseBang**. Since it was a bit rough trying to settle into an idea and voice, I asked my artist if she would like anything in particular; she gave me a few details (including the presence of 'Cupcake', whom I am presuming is the AOS equivalent of the TOS Security Chief Giotto) and the summary, and this was the result. Title comes from this quote, from the TOS episode _The Balance of Terror_, McCoy speaking to Kirk: _In this galaxy there's a mathematical probability of three million Earth-type planets. And in the universe, three million million galaxies like this. And in all that, and perhaps more...only one of each of us. Don't destroy the one named Kirk._

**A/N2**: There's gorgeous art to go with this fic by **megan_moonlight**; visit my LiveJournal, _kcscribbler_, to see the link in my unlocked master post for this fic.

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><p><strong>VI.<strong>

Adrenaline, Jim decides emphatically, is one of Mother Nature's best inventions ever. There's just no way otherwise that any of them are still standing after what just happened, except thanks to that gorgeous little miracle of physiology. He himself is merrily plummeting straight down the precipice to a full-blown migraine, never mind the (yeah, definitely, ow) broken ribs and (Geez, he's never ticking Spock off again) getting choked by not one but three Vulcanoids in the same day – but he still feels freaking _awesome_. Even if he gets kicked out of the Academy after this is all over, he'll still go down in history as Jim Kirk, savior of Earth.

_Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved eight hundred lives. I dare you to do better._(1)

He had, thanks very much. Take that and choke on it, Destiny.

He knows it's going to hit him sometime soon, the knowledge that he wasn't quick enough to save six billion innocent Vulcans (and one innocent human), but for right now he refuses to feel anything but euphoria – because the instant that fades, he knows full well so'll he. They simply can't afford for anyone to come down off the high just yet, and the captain always has to set the example (even if he isn't really a captain, it still sounds pretty darn good and he'll milk it for all it's worth as long as he can).

Plus with no warp core, it's going to be a long, looooong way back to the Sol system. He'll have time to crash later, when he's sure the ship's not going to crack up under them (wouldn't that be a letdown, after all this). For right now, there's work to do, and if he can't get rid of the knife stabbing through his eye then he'll just ignore it. He's always been good at that.

"Any luck reaching Starfleet Command, Uhura?"

"None, sir," and he has to at least be grateful for the courtesy, as she could just as easily have flipped him the bird for asking like, ten seconds later than the last time. "Trying again."

"Chekov, have you got that estimate yet?"

"Aye, Keptin," comes the absent reply from under a pair of wide blue eyes. The kid is too adorably innocent to be an integral part of what had happened here today, he thinks with a twinge of guilt. Chekov is like a wide-eyed child staring into the world of nasty grownups for the first time. Granted, a child that can melt your brain with warp physics or beam you out of thin air by manually overriding the transporter. If he ever gets a ship of his own, he'll be the first to fight the other captains to recruit the cradle for this one _wunderkind_.

"At full impulse, ve vill reach zhe Sol system in five veeks, four days, sewenteen hours, and –"

Just enough time to enjoy this and heal up a little before he gets raked over the coals. "Do we even _have _full impulse?"

"Nyet," is the doleful reply. "Half only, according to Mr. Scott, until he can…I belief he said, jury-rig somezhing in Engineering."

"Fantastic," he mutters, scrubbing futilely at his left eye in an attempt to clear the black halo starting to encroach on his vision there. He counts himself lucky the vomiting hasn't started yet; he's not sure his ribs could take that. "Plot a course back to..." he cringes, but forces himself to plow ahead, "…where Vulcan used to be, Chekov."

"Sir?"

Someday he'll be deserving enough of a captain that no one will question him, and won't that be fine? For now, though, they have the right to question his orders; he hasn't earned anything else. Drawing in a slow breath, he holds it for a second, letting the added oxygen drive back the harshness of the Bridge lighting, loosening constricting blood vessels one by tiny one, before he lets it out slowly. "It's closer than Earth, Chekov, and besides that if there are any survivors they'll have been headed the opposite direction from Nero – towards us. We may be able to pick some up."

From the corner of his functional eye he sees Spock's jaw tighten, but when he glances over Spock just nods at him with what's probably gratitude, unless that's an emotion. Or maybe just a half-hearted okay-I-may-not-kill-you-in-your-sleep-after-all, or whatever. At this point, anything's better than being choked over a console (not that he didn't deserve that, and he'll be the first to admit the fact).

He lurches to his feet, because if he stays in that chair another second he's likely to never get up again without the aid of some pretty fantastic pain meds. Bad, bad idea, though – the movement shifts the knife in his eye stabbing backward into his head, where it threatens to slice right out the other side of his skull (messy stuff, brain matter). Sucking in another breath (lungs are sort of necessary for the breathing process), which he doesn't seem to be getting quite enough of, he takes a moment to up his pain threshold and firmly fight down the urge to hurl his stomach lining onto the shiny decking (because he's not sure if the cleaning drones were damaged in the battle, and nobody else probably cares enough to clean up after him).

"Kirk – _Captain_, I have Starfleet Command," Uhura speaks up from the hazy void behind him, and he grins at the change in title despite the fact that the knife in his head has now twisted and is cheerfully trying to squeeze its way down his brain stem. "On visual. The signal's patchy at best, but I'm trying to clean it up."

He watches Spock move to help her with that, and then turns back to the viewscreen as it fills with static and floating images…wait, the floating images are gone when he blinks a few times. Gotta love a migraine.

Finally Spock does something magical and Vulcan and awesome and crap and the screen clears into what looks like controlled chaos back at Starfleet Command.

Aaaaand, it only just occurs to him that no one there knows he's even _on_ _board _a ship, since he was technically on academic probation, and he doesn't have enough time to think up a good explanation (or even a plea for them to not kill him) before Komack's blasting at him loud enough to be heard ten decks below.

The tirade just isn't computing for him, probably because every word is heating the knife and driving it further into his skull. He probably looks like a very sick goldfish about to expire, trying to get a word of explanation in while the admiral rips his feeble explanation apart and then annihilates the remaining shreds.

He's about ten seconds away from outright whimpering when a presence looms suddenly behind him, and he unconsciously relaxes; whether Spock likes him or not, the Vulcan is definitely on better terms with the Admiralty…with pretty much the rest of the universe, actually…and he's also extremely _scary_.

"Admiral, given recent circumstances your emotion is understandable, but the man who saved the planet on which you currently stand does not deserve to bear the brunt of it. We are wasting valuable time."

Wait, what? Spock really just defended him, all by himself?

Maybe the adrenaline letdown and the trouble he has breathing are making him hallucinate? That's a more logical explanation.

In his defense, Komack has the grace to look slightly chastised. "Commander, would you care to explain what's going on and where you are?"

Spock gives him a nudge, which he sluggishly takes to mean that he's making the point to the admiral that _Kirk's _the captain, thanks very much. He could hug the guy, except he values his life, just a bit.

He swallows hard on another roiling wave of nausea, and forces his head up, speaking with perfect calmness. "We are transmitting coordinates now, sir; but we were forced to eject the warp core in order to push the _Enterprise_ out of the reach of the black hole which was created by the _Narada_'s implosion. It will take us…" he glances down at the padd Chekov hastily shoves under his nose, "…seven weeks, give or take a few days, to make it back to the former location of Vulcan at half-impulse power. A bit longer to reach Terra, unless we get help along the way."

"We're a little low on starships at the moment, Kirk, and you can't install a warp core anywhere but a spacedock," is the dry reply. "I'm afraid you're going to be on your own for most of that, but we'll meet you with a supply ship at least, halfway."

"Sir, medical supplies and personnel will be our biggest concern," he replies. "While Captain Pike is in stable condition, if we do not get an expert neuro-surgeon in the next ten days, acting CMO McCoy will be forced to perform the operation necessary to remove the parasites which the Romulans infected him with. According to his last report, Dr. McCoy would be much more comfortable with a qualified specialist performing the procedure." He's actually pretty proud of the fact that his voice hadn't broken on that; just remembering seeing Chris in that condition on the Romulan ship is enough to bring back the nausea he's been fighting for an hour now.

Komack's face is grave. "We'll do what we can, Kirk, but with the Federation and Earth in such pandemonium I can't promise you anything right now."

For a second the black halo narrows down, doooooowwwwn to a pinpoint on the admiral's insignia, then expands slowly and fades out again. He blows out another shallow breath, willing the lights to stop stabbing at his eyes. "Understood, sir." Maybe if he is super-respectful they won't throw him under the bus _completely _when he gets back.

"Proceed with as much speed as you can back to Terra, Commander," Komack finally adds, speaking pointedly to Spock, after glancing off-screen for a moment. When his gaze returns, it's dark and icy, like the bottom of a lake in January. "You have a lot to answer for, Cadet Kirk."

"I am aware of that, sir," he answers, refusing to react to the bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

"I don't know how in the universe you appropriated command of that ship, Cadet, but turn it back over to Commander Spock immediately and confine yourself to your quarters until your return to Earth."

"Admiral –" Beside him, Spock tenses and immediately speaks up, no doubt going to give some load of crap about emotional compromise and blah blah blah.

"I did not ask for argument, Commander. You will be contacted with further orders later. Proceed with all speed. Komack out."

His hearing fades out for just a second as the grey spots in front of his left eye decide to explode, but he still hears Sulu's mutter from the helm, and forces himself to not laugh at the words; captain has to set the example of blind respect, more's the pity.

"Sir, the admiral's orders were uninformed. I do not believe I should be reinstated as Acting Captain."

Bless you, Spock, you're a decent sort after all. "And I don't _have _any quarters aboard this ship, Commander, so we're even," he mutters in response, swaying slightly.

"Captain?"

The heated throbbing in his left eye is getting harder to ignore, and the gentle, slow spinning of the ship beneath him isn't doing his stomach any favors. Adrenaline wearing off, probably; he'll have to make up for it by sheer determination.

If he can just get his vision to clear enough so he can see properly…

"_Captain_?"

"Fine, Commander," he shoots back quickly, not liking the change in tone; they aren't even friendly, so why would the guy sound worried? "Uhura."

She spins gracefully around to face him, gloriously gorgeous ponytail flying around behind her (yay, alliteration much), and raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Draw up a crew rotation immediately; I want everyone who was on this bridge today off duty in the next two hours, for at least eight hours of sleep and/or relaxation. Put yourself and Commander Spock on the first rotation."

Dark eyes regard him for a moment, and then the creases around them soften. "Sir, I wasn't involved in the physical battles here today; that's not necessary."

He jerks a slightly unsteady thumb at the pointy-eared shadow hovering near him. "Commander Spock was; so it is," he replies lightly. Too bad he's concentrating too hard on keeping his footing to make a whopper of a double entendre out of that hint. But it's true; Spock needs someone with him, and it dead sure isn't going to be the guy who trashed his dead mother.

Sheesh, Uhura doesn't have to look so surprised to learn that he's not a total jerk; that's discouraging.

Why the heck doesn't the ship stop _lurching _like that? With no warp core they shouldn't be moving fast enough to be making people space-sick, especially him. Maybe Sulu has the helm stuck and they're just spinning around aimlessly like a roulette wheel…

Another stab slices blithely through the back of his head, and he absently raises a hand to pull the knife out the other side…wait, it isn't a real knife. No wonder Spock is looking at him like he's a few rows short of a cornfield...

"Commander, we need to organize the ship for repairs…first priority to Sickbay, and then Engineering…and we need to make sure the replicators are working on all decks, last thing we need is to run out of food or supplies," he rambles a bit, ticking points off slowly on one hand.

Spock stands a little stiffer (if that's possible, weird) and nods, gently (gently?) interrupting him. "Already done, Captain; I took the liberty of organizing the ship's remaining crew complement and assigning a rota to each department, to bring the ship to its fullest operating efficiency with as little drain on crew resources and health as possible."

Oh. So that's why everyone calls him the best Commander in the 'Fleet…

Spock's eyebrows hit his hairline…oh crap, did he say that last bit out loud? "Er…well done, then. Anything else that needs my immediate attention, Commander?"

"Negative, sir."

"Excellent." Okay, maybe it isn't the ship that's swaying, maybe it's him. Not good. "Then nobody cares if I go have these broken ribs seen to?" Oh seriously, he did _not_just say that in front of everyone; whatever happened to a captain putting up a front of invincibility? Why can't he get his mouth to catch up with his brain?

Spock is edging toward him, looking like he's trying to calm a skittish horse…heyyyy, Bones had said something about the guy referring to him as a horse just after he jettisoned him on planet Epic Ice Ball. Not flattering, dude.

He moves for the first time in a while, stepping away from the oncoming Vulcan Eyebrow of Doom, and whoa, the deck jumps up to smack him in the face, and everything else is fading out like a radio losing signal in a storm…

He must've half-blacked out for a few seconds, because he vaguely sees a blue blur that stops him from breaking his nose on the deck plating, and hears a startled jumble of voices from somewhere over his head, someone calling for a medical team, the hiss of opening lift doors. Finally squinting against the stabbing glare of fluorescent lighting, he makes out the fuzzy outline of a science insignia getting shoved aside in favor of filthy, blood-stained medical scrubs.

"Ow," he tries to communicate his feelings in succinct and intelligent terms, only to realize, horrified, that he sounds like he's choking. His eyes are watering. In an instant the light's blocked by a large hand partially shading his eyes, and he could cry (more) in relief.

"You're a moron," is the irritated drawl, but the hands accompanying the voice are more gentle than he's ever felt. "How long were you gonna try to hide the fact that you're runnin' around with three broken ribs, acute hypoxia, and a migraine to end all migraines?"

"Long as I could," he grunts, only to yip embarrassingly when the stab of a hypospray jolts him into awareness. Oh, wonderful; both Spock and Uhura and half the Bridge crew are all gawking around him. "What the f-"

"Shut it," Bones retorts, stowing the empty cartridge in a pocket. "That should help clear up the migraine for now, and at least get you some oxygen straight into the bloodstream before you pass out again from lack of air. The rest, I gotta have you down in Sickbay to fix."

"No," he rasps, struggling into a sitting position. Spock, who he just now notices is hovering nervously at his side, shifts one hand as if to help. He glares as best he can through one good eye, and the hand hastily resumes its position on its owner's knee.

"Did I give you the option? _No_." The physician growls, running a scanner over his torso. "Breathe in. Deep."

"But –"

"Do it."

He does, at least partway. And promptly chokes on a scream of epic girlish proportions, as flares of pain erupt from his side like a fire, forcing him to double over to ease the pain, one hand scrabbling for purchase on anything that will let him clutch it until the burning subsides. He's had broken ribs before, and he knows what they feel like – and he knows better than to try to breathe any deeper if he wants to keep his lungs free of holes.

He manages a weak string of curses and holds tight to ride it out, wheezing and choking, barely hearing the worried exclamations from the helm – oh great, he's scaring Chekov, poor kid.

Finally the fire dies down to a burning ember, buried deep in his side, and he only then realizes he's squeezing the life out of someone's slim – and very prettily manicured – hand.

"Uh…s-sorry," he manages to grit out, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

Uhura looks at him oddly for a second as he shakily drops her hand, and finally smirks at him in a way that tells him that if she isn't burying the hatchet, she's at least not waving it close to his neck anymore. "Any excuse with you, isn't it, Kirk."

"Hey, I take what I can get," he retorts, feebly grinning. "Seriously, though –"

"Oh, shut up, you idiot," she snaps, almost fondly. "One more apology and I'll –"

"Yeah, I can use my imagination, thanks." He shivers dramatically. "Listen, Bones –"

"I didn't tell you to speak, Jim. And you're comin' with me to Sickbay _now_."

"No, I'm _not_," he growls, finally dragging the last reserves of his energy out in the form of anger. "Half this crew – these wonderful brave people who are actually _supposed _to be on this ship – are severely injured, and you had better not let any of them die or even suffer because you're pandering to a stowaway!"

He vaguely registers half the Bridge crew's mouths forming an impressive chorus of O's and WTF's, but is too busy glaring down a McCoyian fit to respond. "I've had broken ribs before, Bones," he reminds the irate physician. "I can deal with them; you get back down to Sickbay and help my people – and the Vulcan Council. They all need you way worse than I do. Tape me up if you want, and I'll crash in a Jefferies tube or something somewhere, but you're not hauling me down to take up valuable space in your Sickbay for something this trivial."

"You – you –" the physician splutters (awesome, he's furious, that's all they need right now). "So help me if you think I'm going to let you crash in some corner of this godforsaken ship then –"

"Doctor, Kirk is welcome to the bed and facilities in my quarters," Uhura quietly speaks up.

He blinks, gaping. He's doing a remarkably awesome goldfish impression. He should tour.

"Look, Uhura –"

"My assigned roommate was on Deck 14 when it was hit, and… I have an alternative," she retorts reasonably, when he's about to add his voice to the protests, and she flicks a glance at Spock. Spock turns a bizarre shade of olive, which is actually kind of endearing. "And he's right, McCoy, you need Sickbay for the critically wounded and those under strict observation."

"Now look, I get a shhay in this," he begins, pouting.

"No, you do not," three voices chorus in unison. Hey, irritation-with-Jim in surround-sound. Awesome.

He scowls regally. "My first crew, mutinying on my first day," he mutters. Ugh, he's willing to bet Bones slipped some sort of sedative in that hypo, because he's usually much more suave and smooth than the loose-lipped, murmuring haze he is right now. "Not a good record…ssssee if I come here again."

His eyelids flicker unsteadily for a minute, before his head droops back on a warm blue sleeve. "I hate choo," he observes blearily, waving a limp finger up at worried green eyes. "Y're hypo-happy. 'S like a fetish, weird, man."

The eyes roll upward amid a heavy sigh, but the arm that cradles the back of his aching head and neck just pulls him a bit closer. It's nice. A hand tugs at the collar of his worn shirt, loosening it around his abused neck and smoothing out the frown-wrinkles between his throbbing eyes. "C'mon, kid, just let go already," the murmur reaches his ears just before his eyes flutter closed. "You're killin' me here."

"My…ship," he forces out through increasingly slow vocal chords.

"Will still be here when you awaken. Captain." Hmm, Spock's voice; he can trust Spock. Ish. Old Spock, at least…who was actually his Spock, just Old…ish.

Eh, paradoxes, what the heck. "'Kay. Bones?"

"I'm here, Jim. Just stop fightin' it, let go now."

He does, finally, and doesn't feel a thing until ten hours later, when he wakes up in an unfamiliar (and really girly-smelling) room, freaking out with a full-blown panic attack (can't breathe) like he hasn't had in years.

He knows Bones should be in Sickbay (hasn't even graduated, CMO of the flagship, should be funny but it isn't), not here calming down (can'tbreathecan'tbreathe) a panicking Jim Kirk (whatifhe'dbeenassignedtothe_Farragut_goingtobesickthinkingaboutit), but at that second he's just selfish enough to be so very glad Bones is nowhere else (pleasestay please stay).

"Should be in Sickbay…got more important patients than me," he manages, shaking in his friend's grip (ohgodsomanydead), utterly unable to process the amount of death and destruction and pain and loss he's seen in the last twenty-four hours.

The swat to the back of his aching head hurts enough to get his attention, but it's the words that follow which really break through the despair.

"Don't be an idiot, Jim. I haven't got any."

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><p>(1) Quote is from the movie, ST:XI.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: One of Each of Us (2/6)  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: AOS/XI/Reboot  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, McCoy, various including Spock and the ever-present Cupcake  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13 for off-screen character death and serious angst  
><strong>Word Count this chapter<strong>: 987  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: Surely everyone's seen the movie by now or wouldn't be a part of this comm; basic movie spoilers referenced here and there. Shameless H/C – SHAMELESS, I tell you! Read at your peril. :P I don't write slash, but this can be read as pre-slash or deep friendship if that's what floats your boat. Also warning for references to TOS episodes and off-screen (and non-AOS) character death.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Five times Bones comforted Jim, and one time Jim returned the favor  
><strong>AN**: This is the first time I've written the Reboot since my STBB last October, and so since it was a bit rough trying to settle into an idea and voice I asked my artist if she would like anything in particular; she gave me a few details and the title, and this was the result. Title comes from this quote, from the TOS episode _The Balance of Terror_, McCoy speaking to Kirk: _In this galaxy there's a mathematical probability of three million Earth-type planets. And in the universe, three million million galaxies like this. And in all that, and perhaps more...only one of each of us. Don't destroy the one named Kirk._

* * *

><p><strong>V.<strong>

"You've gotta be the only starship Captain in history who'll haveta spend an entire month's pay on repairs for a rented resort cabin."

"Shut up," he mutters, suitably mortified, as the physician grins from across the wooden table. His ears start to burn as the two Security men (one of whom is his BFF-ish Security Chief Giotto, aka Cupcake, unfortunately) who have been on standard guard outside the cabin in question try desperately to not keel over, laughing their heads off. Finally Spock re-enters with perfect serenity, empty jar in hand, just in time to save him from further embarrassment. "Well?"

"The problem has been disposed of, Captain," the Vulcan replies solemnly, and after almost a year together he can so tell that Spock's dying laughing on the inside; his lips are doing that twitchy thing that indicates a severe attack of gods-help-me-I-live-amongst-idiots-but-they-can-be-so-cute syndrome.

"Well done, Mr. Spock," he responds with as much dignity as he can muster, all things considered, which is namely…not much. "I knew I could count on your scientific knowledge to rectify the problem satisfactorily."

Cupcake looks like he's strangling on something, but Jim has to give the guy credit for only making a kind of wheezing _hurrrk_ sound before the two redshirts make a hasty retreat outside. He has no doubt the lower decks are going to be rolling tonight with highly embellished tales of this disastrous shore leave incident.

Leonard McCoy is under no such obligations to spare his captain's puny dignity, however, as is indicated by the fact that the man is sprawled back in his chair, head tipped toward the ceiling, cackling like a hyena.

"Shut up," he growls, flinging himself into the other chair and daring Spock to make any further comment about the phaser lying on the table between them. He pretends not to notice the faint smell of ozone still lingering in the air. "It was HUGE, I tell you."

"It was barely seven centimeters in diameter, Captain."

"Who asked you?"

"I was merely observing, sir; you did say you were 'counting on my scientific knowledge,' did you not?"

He scowls. "Nobody likes a smart-aleck, Spock."

And there it goes, the eyebrow: this one meaning I-know-everything-fear-for-your-lives-ye-mortals. He ignores his far too smug First in favor of trying to get Bones to stop hiccupping. Serves the guy right for laughing like that. Jim sourly hopes he pulls a muscle.

"Bones, breathe."

"The whole wall!" the doctor manages between gasps for breath. "You took out the whole wall!"

"I _hate_ them!" he protests feebly, knowing even as he says it that he's not going to be able to get out of this with his dignity in any way intact. "They're creepy and disgusting and they've got way too many legs and they JUMP AT YOU and –"

"And they are perfectly harmless, sir; I believe the phrase told to schoolchildren is, they are more scared of you than you are of them?"

Ok, Spock is _dead_ when they get back on board. He's already writing the replicator script coding in his head to turn plomeek soup purple and chunky and tasting faintly of hamburger. "I'm not scared of them," he says, squirming in his chair. "Just…I don't like them. _Really_ don't."

"Not scared, my sainted aunt," Bones snorts. "You shrieked like a girl, Jim."

"Did not."

"You so did. Shrieked. Like. A. Big. Girl. It was _gorgeous_, darlin'."

The blush has now spread all the way down his neck, he's pretty sure. "I didn't shriek…I just yelled," he tries, and knows he's failed miserably when Spock doesn't even deign to give him an eyebrow. He droops. "I did. Yell, not shriek. A very masculine, very dignified yell."

"Let us hypothesize for the moment that that is correct, Captain," Spock begins, and in that condescending tone that only a Vulcan can pull off without getting decked for mere existence. "I daresay that firing a phaser at it, multiple times, does constitute a _slight_ over-reaction to a mere arachnid in your shower stall."

"It was friggin' huge," he mutters gracelessly. "Like, big as my head huge."

"Jim, you blew a hole the size of a tractor in your bathroom wall!"

Bones explodes with another fit of laughter after gasping that out, and Jim starts plotting how to lock his not-best-friend-any-more in the transparent observation dome and see how well he reacts to his own phobia. Jerk.

"All right, so I'm scared of them!" he snaps finally, really and truly embarrassed now. "Sam used to wait until I was asleep in the farmhouse and then drop them on my head in the dark, okay?" Even now he shivers, remembering the feeling of scratchy legs scrabbling over his face, eyes, lips (ugh, that was the worst, he's sure he ate one at one point in his sleep), in the darkness of an Iowa spring night.

Now God (and he'd bet not even He) only knows where in the universe Sam is, and the thought must show on his face, because Bones stops laughing, and looks at him with something that's too close to concern for him to really enjoy; he'd rather have the mockery, because it takes less explaining and makes it easier to stay mad at the guy.

But he's totally shocked when the older man says nothing about any of it, just pats his hand a few times where it rests twitching on the old table, and suggests they call the Security men back for a round of poker before the _Enterprise_ is due to beam them back up from a slightly-aborted shore leave.

Jim's not sure how the doctor coerced (read: blackmailed) Cupcake into not saying anything about his captain's little-girly panic attack, but somehow he did, because word never gets out, and he's pretty grateful about the fact.

McCoy's a heck of a lot more scary than a five-inch spider in his shower, and he loves that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: One of Each of Us (3/6)  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: AOS/XI/Reboot  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, McCoy, various including Spock and the ever-present Cupcake  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13 for off-screen character death and serious angst  
><strong>Word Count this chapter<strong>: 2979  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: Surely everyone's seen the movie by now or wouldn't be a part of this comm; basic movie spoilers referenced here and there. Shameless H/C – SHAMELESS, I tell you! Read at your peril. :P I don't write slash, but this can be read as pre-slash or deep friendship if that's what floats your boat. Also warning for references to TOS episodes and off-screen (and non-AOS) character death.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Five times Bones comforted Jim, and one time Jim returned the favor  
><strong>AN**: This is the first time I've written the Reboot since my STBB last October, and so since it was a bit rough trying to settle into an idea and voice I asked my artist if she would like anything in particular; she gave me a few details and the title, and this was the result. Title comes from this quote, from the TOS episode _The Balance of Terror_, McCoy speaking to Kirk: _In this galaxy there's a mathematical probability of three million Earth-type planets. And in the universe, three million million galaxies like this. And in all that, and perhaps more...only one of each of us. Don't destroy the one named Kirk._

* * *

><p><strong>IV.<strong>

Destiny has one warped mind, is his new revelation of the decade. Out of all the spoilery things Old Spock (he loved the guy, but seriously, he could do with some non-interference training) had spilled to him about their parallel universes (he still didn't get why the old man told him to not let Sam go to Deneva, for instance, since he didn't even have any idea where his brother even _was_), he failed to mention that Jim'd someday encounter a planet with some kind of squashed-donut-shaped portal thing that could _freaking take you back in time_. (1)

He knew the dangers of time-travel better than anyone else, but when it all boiled down to it he was only human. The fact that he was having an allergic reaction (surprise surprise) to Bones's answer for space-sickness (temporal ripples were murder on even the strongest stomach) didn't help. How was he supposed to control what he did while he was somewhere between puking his guts out and acute arrhythmia?

But he had to be honest; it wasn't just the drugs that made him do what he did. He'd screwed up, beautifully, and it had taken the combined efforts of his two closest friends to correct the damage he'd caused when he went through the Guardian and changed his future, he thought for the better. Ambassador Spock hadn't made him feel any better, telling him about the parallel. In the other universe, at least the old man's Bones hadn't _knowingly_ changed his history.

Jim had no excuse; he knew what he was doing. Was acutely aware of his past failures, saw the opportunity to change them, took it, and wrecked his entire world worse than Nero ever had.

And now, after it's all over, he has to live with the knowledge that he made Bones and Spock not just relive it – but fix it, too.

The thought makes him sick to his stomach, as he lies in his cabin, curled up in the oldest blanket he has (he's still feeling the effects of the temporal displacement worse than the crew, Bones thinks because he was exposed to a temporal storm during birth maybe?). All his life he's lived under the Damoclean sword of his Past, a past which he could not control or change. And there on that planet he was given the opportunity to change it, to put things right; the dream of his lifetime. Problem was, whoever dangled that opportunity before him forgot to remind him about the butterfly effect.

And the only two people in the universe he really trusted had had to pay the price. Oh, they had been more concerned about him when it was all over, but he'd seen Spock's silent agony as events had been forced to take their course. Even now he would swear he can feel the grief and pain radiating from the adjoining cabin, and it's killing him slowly to know he caused it.

He hunches down further into the blanket's comforting roughness, scratchy against his hands and wrists, and accidentally knocks the stuffed bear which was sitting at the end of the bunk onto the floor. He picks it up, brushes it off as if it can actually be offended at the cavalier treatment, and props it up on his bedside table beside his framed holo of his mother and Sam on Sam's fifth birthday. It's an atrocious offense to the industry of plush animals; a white, fuzzy monstrosity wearing a pink t-shirt with a smiling yellow cupcake on it (the fact that the cupcake's smiling even though it has a bite taken out of it is a little disturbing, he thinks). His Chief of Security had presented it to him after the spider-of-hell incident, just after they returned from shore leave, saying (with a better poker face than Spock) he'd seen it in the Starbase's spaceport and thought the captain would like to have it. He had nearly died on the spot of utter embarrassment when practically his whole Security force didn't do such a hot job of controlling their sniggering. (Giotto had then regretted his actions when his captain began carrying the thing around with him for a week, propping it up on his dinner tray and introducing it to everyone who walked by as a man-crush present from his SC.)

Now, he's glad for the god-awful thing, because it makes him smile a little for the first time since he went through that cursed portal. His crew is so informal they'd all be thrown out of Starfleet under any other captain, and they may well be just a crew of talented children, not much more – but they're _his_ crew, and though sometimes he wonders if he can really command respect from them he at least has their love, and that's something. More than he deserves, definitely.

But it's that exact reason which makes his recent betrayal such an unforgivable offense.

He's a starship captain, and starship captains don't cry and mope alone in their quarters. But he's also been called _Starfleet's_ _child captain_ by more irritating members of the press, and as such he thinks he can be forgiven the sixty seconds of weakness in which he buries that awful bear under the blanket with him and tries to forget how much he's failed his crew for just a few moments at least.

Only one person can override a captain's lockdown code, and so he knows exactly who it is a few minutes later when the door lock gets overridden to admit someone. He refuses to open his eyes, hoping that the doctor will think he's cried himself to sleep or something equally humiliating and childish, and tries to control his breathing into a more rhythmic cadence to add credence to the idea.

Unfortunately, Bones has never been fooled by him in anything, especially in medical matters, and he can clearly hear the huff of annoyance from the older man, at the idea that Jim could _ever_ be successful in deceiving the all-mighty Leonard McCoy.

But he's surprised to not hear a word. Silence isn't Bones's style; he rants and rages and swears and is basically all bark and no bite – he confronts a problem head-on and hollers it into submission. It's not his way to let things slide, or allow them to fester under cover of awkward silence. Jim's got the monopoly on silent suffering, on pretending nothing happened and nothing is wrong when in reality his whole world is falling apart around him and burying him under the jagged rubble. He prefers it that way; talking it out has never been his style, and it only serves to remind him of correction officers and uninformed psychologists. He doesn't like to talk, because it hurts too much; he prefers the silence that comes from sympathetic experience (maybe that's why he gets along so well with Spock). But Bones doesn't like, and doesn't do, silence.

And yet, he's doing it now. The narrow bunk (perks of being captain don't include something wider than a bench seat) creaks, the mattress dips, and he almost holds his breath, miserably waiting the quiet but firm command to sit up and stop acting like a child, to man up and face his mistake-to-end-all-mistakes like the man he isn't and his father was.

He's completely not expecting a gentle hand on his head, running through his hair before brushing away one of the few tears he hadn't realized were seeping through his closed eyelids. Isn't expecting it, never would have dreamed it, is flabbergasted by it.

And it's that completely unpredicted gentleness that is his undoing.

Before he can register really the extent his body is betraying him, he really is crying, because he doesn't deserve the gentleness and no one's ever really shown it to him anyhow except rescue workers after Tarsus IV and there's no way he's reliving that nightmare right now, thank you. It's not sobbing or even weeping like a girl, thank goodness, but he can't stop the tears that trickle one at a time down his face to soak into the worn blanket.

He feels the hand on his head stiffen, and then a roughly muttered "Aw, kid…" Then, blanket and bear and all, he's bundled unceremoniously into what has to be the roughest, most comforting hug he's ever gotten in his life, and he fights it for just a second before necessity wins over and he slumps into it, miserable and weary and so very grateful Bones isn't trying to talk him through the pain and guilt.

It's a good ten minutes later that the silence is broken (other than his sniffling, which he's trying to muffle in either the blanket or a blue tunic and he has no real idea which), and it isn't by either of them.

He swears mentally; he forgot to lock the adjoining bathroom door, and Spock has long since gotten over his initial stiff-as-a-board-ness and just comes through when he needs something rather than standing in the corridor and chiming obnoxiously for entrance like he used to. Jim gave him full latitude to do so long ago, and had to work hard to convince him, and now it's come back full circle to bite him. (2)

He stiffens, because what on earth is he supposed to say to a man who just had to watch his mother drop off a cliff edge _for the second time_? And this time Spock had to _choose_ to let her, since he knew it would alter the timeline – and that was completely Jim's fault, because he got them all into the mess in the first place. How is he supposed to ever be able to apologize for that?

He sure hopes that strangled whimper isn't him, because that would just be extremely embarrassing, but whether it is or not Bones just pats his back and rocks back and forth for a second. The half-hysterical thought crosses his mind that no one will ever believe him if he tells them that his CMO is just a giant marshmallow covered in cactus spines, but it's closely followed by _oh crap Spock's coming over here and he's going to kill me and I totally deserve it_.

But he's not about to refuse to face the music; and besides, a starship captain takes full responsibility for his actions. He clenches one fist in the blanket and raises his head, focusing reluctantly on the severe figure before him. For a second Bones's hand tightens protectively on his shoulders, before it relaxes, obviously seeing something in Spock's expression that means he's not there to choke his captain for what he did.

Spock's eyes aren't quite as dead and pain-filled as they had been when they beamed up, for which he's grateful; and yet he can barely stand to look at his First. Such a fragile, antagonistic friendship they had formed in these brittle first years, and yet it was the best thing that had ever happened to him – and his recent mistake could easily shatter that. He didn't want to be around for the fallout if that were so.

"Captain. I regret interrupting you; I was unaware that the doctor was with you."

"'S fine, Spock," he manages to rasp out, and he's quite pleased his voice isn't hoarser than it is. "You know you can come in any time you want. Not that you really do want, right now, and I couldn't possibly blame you."

Spock's head tilts to one side in that adorably confused look he gets when a human behaves outside his predicted bounds of expectation and experimentation. "Sir?"

"I know you don't feel hate, but you have to make an exception in my case at the present moment," he clarifies wearily, hunching down into a miserable bundle of blanket and horrific teddy-bear and Bones's arm.

Spock raises an eyebrow, and he fights the urge to giggle like a girl; yeah, hysterics on the horizon if he doesn't get a grip. "On the contrary," the Vulcan replies, "I entered for the purpose of extending to you my gratitude for the opportunity of our recent mission on the planet containing the time-travel device."

His jaw bounces off the blanket and back up. "What opportunity?" Spock's gone nuts with grief, that's the only explanation, has to be…

Dark eyes regard him somberly, but he can see the sincerity in them and it freaks him out just a little. "You said once, in the heat of provocation, that I never…loved, my mother," he says directly, and Jim dies a little more inside because it's true that he said it and so not true that he meant it. But Spock continues before he can open his mouth to again apologize. "And while that is most certainly untrue, it is however true that I never informed her of the fact."

Can the universe just please eliminate him now, and spare everyone the pain he causes everywhere he goes? He'd gladly take a wormhole opening up in the room right now and sucking him in, because he's never felt so awful about anything in his life.

Spock's eyes soften so much he threatens (Surak forbid) to actually look _human_. "Captain, your actions, precipitous and disastrous in consequence though they were, offered me the opportunity to change that fact. And for that, you do have my gratitude."

He blinks, and blinks again, because that's entirely unexpected and he really thinks two bombshells in the same night from the two people in his life he thinks he knows well is really just insane. Bones hugging him and not forcing him to talk about what he did, and Spock thanking him for the opportunity to admit to emotion – the universe must still be in danger of imploding from the time distortions they encountered.

His head drops down to rest, aching, on Bones's shoulder, and Spock knows him well enough to not be offended at his lack of reaction (how do you really say you're welcome after something like that?), and excuses himself after a brief, reassuring touch to his arm. The door hisses shut behind him, and he sighs, letting out all the oxygen in his lungs slowly and measuredly, until there's nothing left and all is quiet.

Bones shifts, and he hears the low murmur drift over his back. "Jim, you have to stop beatin' yourself up over this."

"I'd rather beat up someone else but it's completely my fault," he retorts, but without any vehemence; it's the truth and it hurts so much.

Bones pats his back, a little too hard; more like swatting him. "Yeah, you screwed up, kid, but that's life – we all do at some point. Jim Kirk just likes to do things a little more spectacularly than us mortals."

He chokes a laugh into the blanket and gets a mouthful of fuzz instead.

"Spock doesn't blame you, and neither do I, Jim," and he can fairly hear the compassion and absolution in the words and wishes he could really believe it. "You saw the opportunity to change the pivotal tragedy in our history and you changed it; you didn't mean to cause the changes you did, and no one can blame you for tryin' to save Vulcan and everything else. Stop blamin' yourself, now."

"I don't think I can," he whispers.

"Try, Jim," is the quiet reply.

He is silent for a few seconds, and then sighs. "Why are you even here, Bones?"

The arm around his shoulders tightens briefly, almost unconsciously. "Because Spock can take care of himself and his supposedly non-existent feelin's. And even if you're a starship captain who just screwed up his timeline, you're still a kid who just tried to fix the worst tragedy of the century and then had to watch it happen all over again despite everything. No way in hell am I lettin' you face that alone, not tonight."

He isn't quite sure what to say, and so he doesn't say anything; and surprisingly Bones never asks him to and never comments on it. He finally falls asleep, late into ship's night, after over an hour of peaceful silence, free of guilt and ghosts. He wakes once, around 0300, when he rolls over and nearly chokes to death on teddy-bear fuzz, and finds that he's been tucked in like a little kid, blanket over him and shoes lined up out of the way of his feet for in the morning. There's no one in the room with him, but before he can do more than grunt into his pillow his comm chimes, and it's Sickbay, wanting to know if he's okay.

The idea that Bones has set up the link between Sickbay and his cabin's bio-watch as a glorified baby monitor is slightly creepy and so adorable it's somewhat pathetic. He settles for enjoying the warm feeling that comes from that knowledge, and lets that realization lull him back to sleep.

He'll still blame himself, and he'll eventually have to talk about it; but for tonight, he got exactly what he needed and more.

Part of him hates McCoy for killing him with kindness, and the other part is too shocked at the novelty to be anything but thrilled.

* * *

><p>(1) This is a reference to the TOS episode, <em>City<em> _on the Edge of Forever_. If you've not watched the episode (in the episode, McCoy went back in time and changed their futures, so Spock and Kirk had to go after him), you should still be able to figure out basically what went on; the portal takes a traveler back in time, and in this case it took Jim back to the Battle of Vulcan.

(2) It's common fanon, based upon some blueprints which circulated long ago for the TOS-era Enterprise, that the captain and first officer's quarters shared an adjoining bathroom.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: One of Each of Us (4/6)  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: AOS/XI/Reboot  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, McCoy, various including Spock and the ever-present Cupcake  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13 for off-screen character death and serious angst  
><strong>Word Count this chapter<strong>: 1453  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: Surely everyone's seen the movie by now or wouldn't be a part of this comm; basic movie spoilers referenced here and there. Shameless H/C – SHAMELESS, I tell you! Read at your peril. :P I don't write slash, but this can be read as pre-slash or deep friendship if that's what floats your boat. Also warning for references to TOS episodes and off-screen (and non-AOS) character death.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Five times Bones comforted Jim, and one time Jim returned the favor  
><strong>AN**: This is the first time I've written the Reboot since my STBB last October, and so since it was a bit rough trying to settle into an idea and voice I asked my artist if she would like anything in particular; she gave me a few details and the title, and this was the result. Title comes from this quote, from the TOS episode _The Balance of Terror_, McCoy speaking to Kirk: _In this galaxy there's a mathematical probability of three million Earth-type planets. And in the universe, three million million galaxies like this. And in all that, and perhaps more...only one of each of us. Don't destroy the one named Kirk._

* * *

><p><strong>III.<strong>

They complete their first five-year mission, and Starfleet is more than pleased to re-commission them all for a second one. The voyage has been a stellar success; they've ended with more triumphs than failures, and have done a sufficient job of being the 'Fleet's biggest propaganda weapon to the impressionable youth of the galaxy, whom they desperately need to enlist in Starfleet to replenish the lives lost in the Battle of Vulcan. The crew of the _Enterprise_ has finally thrown off the stigma of being the Federation's baby-sitting ship, and have won their titles twice over, this time with experience rather than necessity. The _Enterprise_ is the flagship, and her crew are the best there is – and now the universe recognizes it rather than doubting it until proven. Jim has known this from the day they sailed, but it's still a relief when he finally gets the news that his evaluations have been near-perfect and that they'll all be together for another mission if they want it.

He's no longer just the Fleet's poster-boy for the _Narada_ disaster; the tragedies of the past have been put behind them all at long last, and he truly feels every inch a Starfleet captain rather than a puppet trying to break the strings which give his control to the Federation higher-ups, without breaking himself in the process. His command crew has all signed up for another mission without question, though it was a little scary there for a while when they offered Spock his own scientific research vessel. He'd had one heartwrenching moment of sheer panic when his First had hesitated, and then had nearly fainted when Spock turned it down without even a request for time to consider. He'd sooner lose a limb than his First Officer, and he's so ridiculously pumped that Spock would choose to stay that it's no surprise he ended up here – namely, sloshed to the gills on (he suspects slightly alien) hooch, in downtown San Francisco.

He's no idiot; his precious Cupcake and another security guy are in the crowd at the upscale bar, because even if he tried to ditch his royal guard they chomp onto him like dogs to a meaty bone. It's both reassuring and a little stalkerish. But even on shore his men refuse to let him out of someone's sight, and he's gotten used to it. He doesn't like it, but he knows everyone has their own way of showing love, and this just happens to be his crew's way of doing it – so it doesn't hurt anything and he allows it.

He's a little glad they're here tonight, though, because he suspects (muddled though his thoughts are) that his drink might not've been a straight Cardassian sunrise like he thought it was; he wouldn't have intentionally got quite this drunk even as a civilian. He's off enough to know he is, but too much to be of use in preventing himself (or the gorgeous little thing that's been plying him with the stuff all night) from making an idiot of himself. That's the last thing the tabloids need during this four-week refit, is to get a picture of the Federation's most famous face just a few too many sheets to the wind and plaster it all over the galactic-webs. He's in trouble, and he knows it.

He's close to panicking over that thought when, bless his Security Force's paranoid hearts, Giotto takes one look at him at their hourly check-in and loses no time in shifting him out of the establishment the back way, much to the disappointment of the over-eager blonde who had him cornered (he wasn't drunk enough to give her his comm-number, thank everything in the universe). The SC wastes no time in seeing him to his apartment, despite Jim's pouts and protests, and more dumps than helps him inside before pouring him a glass of water and scramming before he can embarrass himself further than he has tonight.

He mopes for a few minutes on the couch of the Fleet-issue temporary apartment, half-wondering why Cupcake had been so quick to skedaddle (other than the fact that his captain's a slurring, sad mess at the moment), when a small tornado bulldozes through his front door in a burst of irritated profanity that makes his already-aching head threaten implosion.

_"What in the name of all that's good and sensible were you thinking?"_ seems to be the gist of it, he observes through a hazy focus, when the rant has wound down a little, and he tries to explain that he didn't mean to do anything but celebrate – he'd forgotten he's been in space without strong liquor for five years other than the occasional libation on shore leave. It's not a good idea to come straight back and go for the good stuff, not after that long spent in temperance. He hadn't intended to get drunk, and he tries to tell Bones that, but the guy won't shut up long enough to listen.

Cupcake's _so_ busted down to ensign when he gets sober enough for his voice recognition software to acknowledge the order.

"Didn't mean to, Bones," he finally murmurs during a lull, rubbing his aching head as it droops in dejection. "I wouldn' do anything to damage the _Ennerpris_e's reputation, y'know that. Just didn' realize…"

The light swat he gets to the back of the head jars his brain loose a little, and he yelps, cringing away from the large hand which is checking his pupils.

"You're lucky Giotto called me," is the grunt in reply, in a thoroughly unimpressed tone.

Oh, crap. Bones had been in Georgia, visiting his little girl for the few hours his shrew of a wife would let him see her.

"'M fine," he manages with a spectacular effort, pulling himself upright into a regal sitting position. The image is slightly destroyed when he lists to one side and makes an abbreviated landing against the couch arm. "Go home to JoJo, 'm fine. Just need to sleep it off 'fore I make an idiot of m'self."

"Bit late for that, Jim," is the sardonic reply, but the hands that help him lie down on the couch are more gentle than before. "Next time you feel like celebratin' that Spock's not jumpin' ship – literally – make sure you start with somethin' a little less potent, y'hear me?"

He nods, but since his head's sideways on the couch it rubs his cheek painfully, ow, rug burn. He scrunches his eyes shut for a second and sighs, because he never meant to pull Bones away from his kid.

"Cupcake shouldn've called you," he mutters, half into the couch-cushion. He's no stranger to feeling drunk, but he's still just this side of sober enough to know he's going to really, really regret this in the morning, and not just because of the headache. "Not fair t'you, Bones."

"Yeah, well, life isn't fair, we all know that, kid." A hand pats his shoulder briefly, and he relaxes under the unexpected touch.

Needles of hell stab into his neck the next instant, and he howls loud enough to wake the neighbor (some kooky admiral's wife who's staying there with her pet Yorkie while her husband's off in the Delta quadrant – and who could blame him, with a nut like that to come home to).

"I hate you!" He rubs his shoulder, feeling betrayed.

"No, you don't," the doctor replies calmly, pocketing the spent hypospray. "That'll start to clear the alcohol content in your blood, but you shouldn't be walkin' around or anything while it works. Get eight hours of sleep and I'll check on you tomorrow mornin'. And for goodness' sake think twice before you pull a stunt like this again, or I'll sic your precious hobgoblin on you for the rest of our leave here."

His eyes widen in horror. "You wouldn' dare."

"Try me," Bones retorts. "How do you think he'd like to hear about that stunt you pulled tonight? I don't care if you did have a security detail in earshot, it's blamed stupid for you to go out pulling alone, civvies or not, while you're the main topic of conversation in all the newsfeeds."

"I plead young 'n' stupid 'n' not used to anyone on Earth really caring if I get stoned of an evening?" he offers, hoping that his smile belies the bitterness that hints at its truthfulness.

He receives a look that holds his attention like a fire burning into his soul, before McCoy turns to leave the apartment. "None of those are true anymore, _Captain_," the physician snaps over his shoulder as he reaches for the doorknob. "And don't you dare forget that."

He doesn't. Ever.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: One of Each of Us (5/6)  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: AOS/XI/Reboot  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, McCoy, various including Spock and the ever-present Cupcake  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13 for off-screen character death and serious angst  
><strong>Word Count this chapter<strong>: 3657  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: Surely everyone's seen the movie by now or wouldn't be a part of this comm; basic movie spoilers referenced here and there. Shameless H/C – SHAMELESS, I tell you! Read at your peril. :P I don't write slash, but this can be read as pre-slash or deep friendship if that's what floats your boat. Also warning for references to TOS episodes and off-screen (and non-AOS) character death. TOS spoilers footnoted for the sake of XI-onlyers.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Five times Bones comforted Jim, and one time Jim returned the favor  
><strong>AN**: This is the first time I've written the Reboot since my STBB last October, and so since it was a bit rough trying to settle into an idea and voice I asked my artist if she would like anything in particular; she gave me a few details and the title, and this was the result. Title comes from this quote, from the TOS episode _The Balance of Terror_, McCoy speaking to Kirk: _In this galaxy there's a mathematical probability of three million Earth-type planets. And in the universe, three million million galaxies like this. And in all that, and perhaps more...only one of each of us. Don't destroy the one named Kirk._

* * *

><p><strong>II.<strong>

They're three years into the second five-year mission when it happens, the day he'll never forget as long as he lives – the one that's seared into his memory as clearly as the day they lost the planet Vulcan and nearly lost Earth. They stand out, these (thankfully) few red-letter days, stark signposts of pain and grief along the road of his life, and this is the worst one in years.

They're trawling along on a star-mapping mission, a beautifully uneventful one for the first time in several weeks. His crew is tired and efficiency/morale is down, and so the opportunity for a well-deserved break is happily accepted by all. Other than the stellar cartography department and Spock's chosen protégés, the majority of the crew are able to take shorter shifts and spend time catching up on the small business that goes unnoticed and low-priority during crises. Jim himself has taken the opportunity to finish the half-dozen books he's begun and forgotten in the last six months, and Medical is finally up to date in their paperwork and requisitions. There have been seminars in the evenings for the crew on various topics (oddly enough, Spock's learn-the-Vulcan-nerve-pinch one had been the best-attended, which meant Jim won the pool in which the crew had been betting), and as a whole his people were much the better for the break from a chaotic mess of space battles and exploration missions.

He's on the Bridge now with a skeleton crew, sipping absently at a cup of substandard coffee and idly perusing Scotty's latest brainchild for 'upgrading' the warp engines. He suspects the Scotsman is not entirely sane. Half the machinery and technology in Engineering he would be willing to bet is pirated, but he asks no questions so that he can plead plausible deniability if he ever has to. As long as the ship can go from impulse to warp seven in thirty seconds if necessary to save their skins, he's cool with giving his Chief Engineer a free reign and as many sandwiches as the guy can eat.

Spock is blissfully engrossed at the moment in his star charts and departmental reports (he looks like he's in love), Uhura is trying to hide the fact that she's yawning and instant-messaging Scotty (_oh ho ho, _he thinks with a smirk), Sulu and Chekov are debating something and its supposedly Russian origins (no surprise there), and the others are simply going about their duties with a relaxed air. After he checks on each of them to make sure they're still keeping at least one eye on their jobs so they don't accidentally pilot into a supernova (what a way to go) he returns to his reports.

A beep from behind him, and Uhura snaps instantly into professional mode, pressing buttons and cocking her head to the side to focus on a transmission.

"It's for you, sir," she says in answer to his query. "Priority One call from…New Vulcan, Captain."

Spock's chair swivels silently his direction, and the question is clear in his eyes. Jim hopes there's nothing wrong with the colony; after eight years they're only just now beginning to look like a thriving culture again rather than an endangered species struggling to even mentally survive.

Someday he has to talk to Command about revamping the design structure of the Bridge to allow for a small ready room or briefing room so that he can take transmissions like this in private; but for now, he's not about to keep the Vulcan Council waiting. In eight years he's become the semi-official diplomat to the planet New Vulcan, and even after all this time it's still pretty intimidating.

"On screen, Lieutenant." He flicks a glance at Spock, who nods ever-so-slightly in encouragement and support, and then he stands at loose attention in front of his chair as the screen flickers into life.

He's prepared to see one of the Elders of the Vulcan High Council, because as the flagship the Enterprise has been the one to mainly deal with their requests and colonial issues. What he's not expecting, however, is to see the planetary matriarch, T'Pau herself, on the screen. T'Pau does not negotiate herself with outworlders; she is a fearsome power in a small body, a force to be reckoned with.

She's also Spock's _great_-_grandmother_, which is even _scarier_.

He unconsciously tugs at the ends of his tunic to make sure it's free of wrinkles. He's never been sure how to address the woman, though he hasn't had much opportunity to do so, simply because she states that titles are meaningless and illogical. Spock flatly vetoed calling her Your Highness or Most Logical One, and so he follows his instincts when dealing with Vulcans – _logically_, one's name is the best way to address a being.

"Captain James Kirk," she speaks regally before he can flounder through a traditional greeting, and he relaxes a tiny bit because she at least doesn't look like she'd like to kill him for some unknown offense. She almost looks…he'd say sad, but that's not it; more like…regretful. And she's not using the Standard equivalent of High Vulcan with _thee'_s and _thou'_s, which means this is a little more informal than an official communiqué. And that's even more frightening; he's never heard such informality before from the head matriarch herself.

"Madam T'Pau," he replies, slightly awkwardly returning her bow of the head in respect. "We have received your transmission and are prepared to warp to your assistance; how can the _Enterprise_ help your people?"

"New Vulcan is not in need of assistance from your ship, Captain," she replies calmly, "but your offer is acknowledged with gratitude."

"Then –"

"James."

He starts imperceptibly (along with Spock and probably half the Bridge crew) at the sudden informality, and the slight ripple of some indefinable which undercurrents his name. He raises his head in silent inquiry.

T'Pau bows her head for a moment before looking him in the eyes. "I regret that I have news which will be unwelcome to thee," she says somberly, and his heart suddenly clenches in his chest at the transition to formal Vulcan speech. A sick feeling begins to crawl up from his stomach to his throat, which has gone suddenly dry, as if he's swallowed a sheet of sandpaper and it won't go down any further.

"Ma'am?" he asks hoarsely, but he's afraid he already knows the answer. He's thought all day his slight and inexplicable depression was due solely to boredom and weariness, but…

T'Pau gives him a look that's unmistakably pity, and he knows his emotions must be visible on his face. But, like all Vulcans, she's direct and doesn't sugar-coat things. "Captain, Ambassador Selek was unable to be awakened this morning at his home in _Nu'ri-Shi'Kahr_," she says quietly. (1)

His lungs seize up for a second and his ears ring, and he has just time to think feebly that the Bridge probably shouldn't be getting fuzzy like that before someone has his arms in a death-grip. His chair smacks into the back of his legs as he's walked backward a step to collapse into it, fighting to clear his vision, and he remembers belatedly that yeah, breathing would be a good idea.

He draws in a long breath, praying to any deity in the quadrant that he won't start hyperventilating or bawling or anything else that will embarrass him to the Vulcan Council, and slowly passes a hand over his face, lingering for a second on his mouth, eyes closed, to ease the nausea.

Finally he looks up, and he doesn't have to glance beside him to know the hand that's still on his shoulder is Spock's. He meets T'Pau's eyes, and he's a little surprised to see genuine compassion and understanding in them (the Ambassador has been – _was_ – good for them and their repressed emotions). The sight gives him the courage to square his shoulders and firmly shut the door on his feelings for just long enough to get through the next five minutes.

"_Tushah nash-veh k'odu_, T'Pau," he speaks softly, grateful that years have honed his accent into passability.

Aged eyes look slightly startled for a moment, before the expression is smoothed away – but she only looks him in the eyes and replies in kind. "_Tushah nash-veh k'odular_, James Kirk, Spock," is the calm reply. (2)

Behind him, he hears Uhura's intake of breath, and Spock's fingers tighten just a fraction on his shoulder; the gesture isn't lost on anyone who understands fluent Vulcan.

"I thank thee," he manages in Standard, and she nods, regal as ever.

"He will be greatly missed, and his memory cherished." She looks between him and Spock for a moment, finally settling back on him. "His last wish was that you should be contacted in person by one who would respect your grief, not an impersonal bystander, James."

He tries to thank her, but no words will come out of his mouth at the moment unless he wants to chance breaking down in front of the matriarch of Vulcan and his entire Bridge crew. Fortunately the stately woman seems to understand, because she only nods with what looks to be genuine sorrow, and after offering him the _ta'al_ and telling him that he will be contacted regarding particulars, the transmission ends.

He doesn't even realize he's just staring at the starry landscape until a gentle touch on his arm brings him back to the present with a sickening jolt.

He's not rude enough to shake Spock off, because…well, he's all Jim has left now, and besides it isn't his fault and the guy is probably grieving as well. But there's a difference between them, and after all this time he's not afraid to admit it or threatened by it. Spock can control his grief for now; Jim knows he has no hope of doing so, not at the present moment.

He rises, and presses the log button on his armrest. "Commander," he speaks in clipped tones, "don't think I don't appreciate the irony," and here he shoots Spock a small smile to let him know he's half-kidding, "but I must ask you to relieve me of command temporarily on the grounds that I am emotionally compromised. Computer, acknowledge temporary relief of command to Spock, First Officer."

Spock's eyes are sadder than any human's ever could be – the old insult which he'd been told of once; Spock had his mother's eyes, and Jim frankly thought that was perfect – but he nods, silently promising what Jim would never ask aloud. Jim's gratified to see that the poor guy looks a little heartbroken about even having to say what he does; who'd have thought in eight years he'd ever earn the loyalty of the most extraordinary being in the universe?

"Computer, acknowledge former log and implement temporary relief of command functions, voice authorization Spock, First Officer."

Spock seems to understand, because he only nods as Jim slumps for a minute against the armrest before making his way to the lift doors. But right now he needs something Spock can't – not won't, but truly _can't_ – give him. Much as he cares about the Vulcan he just can't deal with seeing him at the moment, not able to even look at him without thinking of his older self. It isn't fair to him, and Jim knows it, but he just can't deal with it right now.

Spock's sorrowful, unjustifiably apologetic look follows him out.

* * *

><p>After getting off on the Engineering deck, unseen, he ducks into a Jefferies tube that's never used except when the lifts are down. For what seems like hours he crawls around his ship, trying to outrun a swarm of memories that are more painful than losing his brother, more agonizing than the idea of losing his father ever could be. Old Spock (he called him that because the Ambassador nearly cracked up in his weird Vulcan way every time, and his Spock just glared at him) was like his father, grandfather, older brother, best friend all wrapped up into one. Jim's used to loss, because you have to be in this business, but this time is different – it's like a big piece of his heart's been ripped out and shattered into a thousand bleeding pieces, and it <em>hurts<em>. It hurts so, so much, and he can barely stand the pain.

The pain of knowing he's never going to see the elderly man again, that he'll never get to watch the Ambassador and his Spock going at it over semantics and humanity, that he'll never get to see that small not-smile and the affection shining out of dark brown eyes that have seen far too much pain in too many worlds, that he'll never get to ask the guy for advice and feel for just a little while that he has the complete trust and loyalty of one person in the whole universe just because he shares a name with someone the ambassador cared for dearly. The worst part is that Jim was supposed to _be there_ when it happened, he'd always planned to be because the poor guy didn't have his own Jim Kirk anymore.

Spock – the other universe's Spock – had died all alone, and the knowledge breaks his heart.

He's shocky and cold and for the first time in his life he has no idea where on his ship he is; he's crawled until his knees ache and he can't see for the tears he's trying desperately to not let fall because if he does he might never stop and starship captains have to be strong and not fall apart and he's almost thirty years old so he shouldn't be acting like this –

He jumps with a startled sob when something settles beside him in the darkness, arms firm around his shoulders. He's been hunched in a junction access tube, legs drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them, his face buried in his knees. He doesn't need the faint smell of antiseptic to know who would care enough to chase him down through like three miles of Jefferies tubes, and he turns without a word into a strong shoulder and silently, for once, follows the one doctor's order that he hates the most (_shh, just let it all out, Jim_) and weeps like a child until there's nothing left inside him but pain and loss.

They're still sitting there three hours later when alpha shift's been over for a while and a not-worried-because-that-is-an-emotion Spock finally locates them with a missive from the Vulcan council about arrangements.

Starfleet at first sends their regrets but tells them the mission must go on (as if). Jim can't prove anything, but he suspects his First Officer has become quite proficient at the art of blackmail, because twenty-four hours later the Admiralty changes their tune and the _Enterprise_ is sent to pay the Federation's respects to an unsung hero of the Battle of Vulcan (events aren't public knowledge due to the time-travel involved).

He knows he attracts an awful lot of attention, the only blond human in a green dress uniform amidst a sea of dark hair and black ceremonial robes, but it doesn't matter.

Spock deserves to have at least one person weep for him at his funeral.

It isn't until a few weeks later, when the formalities are all finally taken care of, that he finds out the Ambassador left his estate, what there was of it, to the large orphanage there in _Nu'ri-Shi'Kahr. _But for him and only him, there's a note, and it sits in his cabin for a week before he can screw up the courage to open it – and even then, he doesn't think he can do this by himself.

When he appears in Sickbay, old-fashioned envelope in hand (another thing he'd miss; the old man knew well his fondness for the old stuff like books and pens), Bones doesn't say anything other than to snap an order at a long-suffering Chapel to divert any non-class-A emergencies to M'Benga, and herds Jim into his office without preamble.

_Pi'Jim_, (3) he reads the first line once they've been fortified with liquid courage and settled on the consulting couch, and he smiles gently at the diminutive; it was always so cute. He blinks a few times when he remembers this is the last time he'll ever be called that, but he finds himself able to go on after a second to pull himself together.

_Pi'Jim,_

_I hope this will not find its way to you for many years to come; but it is best to be prepared, and so I take the liberty of composing this message in advance. I have learned the hard way how very short life is, and how goodbyes are not always able to be said. My captain left on the maiden voyage of the _Enterprise_-B, and I was not to know my last words to him would simply be _I shall see you upon your return, Jim_. It was a lie, young one, my last words to him were a lie, albeit an unintentional one, and I refuse to repeat that mistake with this second chance, of sorts, that I have been given._

_Jim, do not grieve for me overmuch. I have lived a long and prosperous life, both in my own universe and later in yours. I am weary, my friend, and while I have no plans to die in the near future I cannot say the rest will be unwelcome when it comes. This world is beautiful, even tainted by the shadow of what is Past, but it is so very young; there is no real place here for a temporally-displaced old man, and that is what I am._

_You are familiar by the time you read this, no doubt, of the Vulcan concept of the katra. Mine shall be released, by my choice – legally and morally – to be free in the universe to seek out that of my James Kirk. Do not grieve too long for me, Jim, for by the time that you do I shall be, for the first time in over a century, home._

_I need not remind you to cherish that which you have, young one. I hope that you and my counterpart will care for each other as much as I cared for both of you; I am content in the knowledge that the universe has again balanced itself, secure in the knowledge that I leave you in the more competent hands of your own First Officer._

_Three things, Jim, three last pieces of advice I feel I must give to you; use them or forget them at your leisure, but I would not go to my grave without at least the opportunity to say them:_

_1. If you in your travels encounter a derelict vessel called the _Botany Bay_, under no circumstances board her or release the occupants. Her occupants are too dangerous, both on a galactic scale and on a personal, to be permitted to come out of stasis. (4)_

_2. Do not let Starfleet promote you to Admiral until you are completely ready to step down from active service. Your first, best destiny is among the stars, commanding a starship. (5)_

_3. If you are asked to evacuate a research team from a planet in the Minaran system due to impending nova, spend no more than five minutes in looking for the missing team members. (6)_

_Now, I can close in no better way than to paraphrase something I once said before, a lifetime ago. Jim, I have been and ever shall be, in this or any other universe, your friend._

_Spock_

_P.S. If I may quote the last thing my own Dr. McCoy said to me prior to his passing – you take care of yourself, or I will 'come back to haunt you.' While I would certainly be amenable to seeing you again, old friend, you can perceive the awkwardness which might result. I do not believe your own Spock likes to share._

_S_

He giggles like a girl at the last line, because it's so true – Spock always gets…_got_, in such a huff when he would be all chummy with the Ambassador. The snicker turns into a laugh, and then a longer one, and then he laughs until he cries, and cries until he can laugh again, and through it all Bones sits beside him patting his knee or nudging with an elbow and just mutters appropriate comments here and there until Jim feels more like himself than he's felt in days.

Destiny may have royally screwed things up along the way of his life, but there's at least one thing she sure got right.

* * *

><p>(1) <em>Nu'ri- <em>is the prefix meaning new in reference to a new beginning or fresh start, rather than the other meaning of new which refers to an untested or inexperienced situation.

(2) _Tushah nash-veh k'odu _is the Vulcan phrase _I grieve with thee_ when spoken to someone of superior or equal rank; the phraseology is a gesture of respect. _Tushah nash-veh k'odular _is the plural form of that phrase; the ending of both differs when being spoken to someone of lower rank.

(3) _Pi'_ is the diminutive prefix meaning small or young; literally, _Pi'Jim_ is _little_ or _young Jim_.

(4) Spoilers: TOS _Space Seed_, later ST:II - _The Wrath of Khan_

(5) Spoilers: _ST:TMP_

(6) Spoilers: TOS _The Empath_


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: One of Each of Us (6/6)  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: AOS/XI/Reboot  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, McCoy, various including Spock and the ever-present Cupcake  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13 for off-screen character death and serious angst  
><strong>Word Count this chapter<strong>: 6045  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers**: Surely everyone's seen the movie by now or wouldn't be a part of this comm; basic movie spoilers referenced here and there. Shameless H/C – SHAMELESS, I tell you! Read at your peril. :P I don't write slash, but this can be read as pre-slash or deep friendship if that's what floats your boat. Also warning for references to TOS episodes and off-screen (and non-AOS) character death. TOS spoilers footnoted for the sake of XI-onlyers. Warning - one swear word (very mild) in this chapter. Cursing puts me off a fic, and I don't swear myself, so I don't write it either, but in this situation it's more than warranted. I mean, it _is _AOS Bones.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Five times Bones comforted Jim, and one time Jim returned the favor  
><strong>AN**: This is the first time I've written the Reboot since my STBB last October, and so since it was a bit rough trying to settle into an idea and voice I asked my artist if she would like anything in particular; she gave me a few details and the title, and this was the result. Title comes from this quote, from the TOS episode _The Balance of Terror_, McCoy speaking to Kirk: _In this galaxy there's a mathematical probability of three million Earth-type planets. And in the universe, three million million galaxies like this. And in all that, and perhaps more...only one of each of us. Don't destroy the one named Kirk._

* * *

><p><strong>I.<strong>

After nine years in deep space, Jim thinks he's seen enough to really feel that he's as good a captain as his older counterpart had been in that other universe he's wondered so much about. He's a highly proficient diplomat, a tactical genius, and one of the most famous names in Federation history; not bad for someone only in his early thirties. He's a decade ahead already of his other-universal counterpart, and he's already nearly completed a second five-year mission, which his other never had. He's skilled and experienced now, rather than just confident and hopeful – and it shows in his line of success stories. The Enterprise has become renowned as The Ship to send if there's a disaster in the making, and her crew is legendary, highly-sought-after and dreamed of by Academy hopefuls.

It's no surprise to him that when the worst plague to hit the galaxy since the initial outbreak of Rigellian fever on Rigel IX two decades ago, it's the Enterprise which is dispatched immediately to the Priority One distress call. His ship's the biggest and fastest, and she has the most competent medical staff in the Federation; the medical frigates which will follow him have the space for treatment and casualty, but he has the knowledge. They can do this, and so he goes into the situation confident that they will have a solution within days and the plague under control in not many more.

He hasn't anticipated, and therefore is totally blindsided by, finding out a week into their work that the plague is not a natural development on the planet of Ardia, a small, intrinsically worthless sphere just this side of the Neutral Zone. It's a genetically-engineered virus which is deadly within hours, one whose lethal precision indicates immediately to his medical staff that it's a bio-weapon, not a plague outbreak. Biological warfare was outlawed two centuries ago, but that doesn't stop the psychopaths of the galaxy from utilizing its destructive power. The death toll on Ardia is already in the ten-thousands, and if this thing really is a bio-weapon then that count will at least double before the virus stops mutating, faster than they can develop an anti-virus.

Jim's on the _Enterprise_, when his chief medical staff under an exhausted Leonard McCoy's direction inform them of this fact. They have just enough time to panic over that discovery before a rogue Romulan Warbird (there's no way in the galaxy those embellished armaments are standard Romulan fleet; the problems with renegade Romulans are getting worse by the year) decloaks in front of them and damages their Engineering section beyond quick repair before they can finally return fire enough to destroy it.

But he has to fight to keep his composure when his viewscreen flickers back into life, showing the science station below and his people within it – now hostages under the four Romulans who managed to beam off the Warbird before it was destroyed. The worst part of his job is things like this; hostage situations are never pretty, and usually end in tragedy for someone.

The sight of his Chief Medical Officer, Head Nurse, Chief Security officer, half-a-dozen BioMedical research personnel and Security guards, and a few scattered civilians kneeling on the floor, hands behind their heads, sends adrenaline shooting through his veins faster than a hypospray of stimulants, and he clenches his fists behind his back to hide their trembling.

"Captain Kirk," the foremost Romulan says directly to him. The hulking figure turns his phaser rifle over to a subordinate, who replaces the barrel against McCoy's head (he has to hand it to Bones, the guy looks like he's deciding what bits to cut off the Romulan first the moment he has a chance – space has changed all of them). "I am Rhanat, Chief Tactical Officer of the research vessel you destroyed above this planet just now."

"What does a research vessel need with a Chief _Tactical_ Officer?" he retorts, putting all the force of his name and power into his words and praying it's enough after these years to give him a psychological edge. "And I don't care who you are, you're not going to get away with taking my people hostage. Do you really want the Federation after you for straying past the Neutral Zone?"

"We did not stray, Captain," Rhanat answers calmly, smiling at the screen. Jim tries to not be freaked out by the Vulcanoid mannerisms combined with a free openness of emotion – in this instance, hatred and apathy to the welfare of the 'Fleet personnel trapped down there. "This planet is one of our research stations. Your Federation has no claim upon it, and it is just within the cushion of space which comprises the borders of the Neutral Zone. You have less right to be here than we do, and no right to destroy our vessel."

He snorts, refraining from further expressions when his people are menaced by the other three Romulans with the phaser rifles. "Your vessel nearly took out my warp core, Commander Rhanat," he returns pointedly. "You fired the first shot; and why the cloak, if you do indeed have the right to be in this space?"

"For the very simple reason that we did not wish your Federation to know of our presence on Ardia, Captain," Rhanat says. Jim flicks a glance to the side and sees a brief shake of head; their subspace communications are being jammed. A medical frigate is only two hours behind them but they're not going to be much tactical help; the Enterprise is on her own.

"Ardia is under enforced Priority One quarantine as of today, Commander," he returns with perfect diplomacy. "We will be happy to escort you to another planet within your neutral zone, or allow you on board to be our guests until a transport can be arranged for you. There's no need to hold Federation personnel and civilians hostage."

The Romulan laughs, and everyone on the Bridge shivers; it just looks wrong coming from a face with pointed ears. No matter how many Romulans he meets, Jim will never get used to that. "Captain, I had expected you to be much quicker in your intuitive leaps; the rumors are, I see, highly exaggerated. No matter." Dark eyes glitter with malice, and he gets the distinct impression that this guy is almost as crazy as Nero had been – mad with anger and hatred.

Wait, intuitive leaps?

"Captain, Ardia is a tactical research station," Rhanat speaks slowly, as if explaining things to a child. "Specifically, researching…biological weaponry?"

If he hadn't made the connection a second before, the look of horror that twists his CMO's face lights up the whole picture for him clear as day, and it makes him ill to think of.

"You're…experimenting on these innocent people?" Bless her, Christine Chapel looks like she's about to faint, but Jim can't blame her. This is madness on a grandiose scale, beyond the usual horrors they encounter with fair regularity.

Rhanat doesn't even spare her a look, only fixes his eyes hungrily on the viewscreen. Jim feels the unaccountable urge to hide behind something, but naturally stands his ground. "I have need of your ship and her tactical and medical facilities, Captain Kirk," the Romulan announces calmly, as if asking for nothing more than the time of day.

"Over my dead body," he snaps back without thinking, shuddering internally at the thought of what the Enterprise's firepower could do in the hands of a madman. He can see by the subtle blink of lights in his armrest that Spock's already used the captain's codes (he knows everything; Jim has fun trying to stump him by changing them every few days) to lock out all commands from the ship's computers.

"Not yours, necessarily, but if you require a demonstration of the severity of the situation..." The Romulan barks a harsh word in Rihannsu, and before any of them can react there's the flash of a phaser rifle and one of Spock's bio-research lieutenants disintegrates, only her scream remaining for a moment before fading into silence.

Jim's already on his feet by the time the stunned bridge crew can react. Someone in the back of the group on the viewscreen retches softly, and a child from somewhere in the lab below is crying, he can hear it through the speakers.

This can't be happening.

It's the heartbroken look on Bones's face that nearly cracks his resolve, though; they've not lost anyone pointlessly like this in a very long time and it may well kill them both. Lieutenant Xan-thra was only 22 years old; they're getting younger and younger, it seems like.

He forces chilled steel into his voice despite his sudden terror. "That wasn't necessary, Commander," he snarls.

"Oh, but I think it was, Captain. Now. Barat's scans show you have locked out all functions from your ship's computers; I will require your override, for that to be lifted so that we may remotely access your transporter."

Jim smiles thinly. "No."

"I have almost twenty of your crew here, Captain; how many more of them must die before you'll concede to the inevitable?"

He falters for only an instant, and then sees Giotto behind McCoy, glaring at him with a look that says he's a dead man if he even thinks about it. He sets his jaw; being captain means making horrible choices if necessary.

"I won't concede," he snaps bluntly. "And nothing you can do will make me; that's not how Starfleet works. We don't negotiate with mass murderers. Killing them won't change my mind, so it's pointle-"

He chokes to a halt when the third Romulan in the group shoots one of the civilians.

"Stop it, you inhuman son of a-" He winces as his furious CMO surges to one knee and then takes a hard backhand to the mouth, effectively stopping the tirade, but he doesn't dare protest for fear Bones will get worse from the Romulan holding him.

"Stand down, Doctor!"

"Jim, you can't let him keep –"

"I said stand down!" He's really scared now, because all it would take is for one Romulan to get tired of hearing human voices and he'd lose his best friend. It kills him to see the look of grief and hurt in McCoy's eyes, but it's the price he pays in this business. "You know the rules as well as I do, Lieutenant-Commander," he continues, reminding the physician of his rank before his occupation.

Rhanat is no fool, though, and Jim sees with an edge of panic that he is regarding McCoy thoughtfully.

"In our fleet," the Romulan muses aloud, carefully sizing up the furious human kneeling before him, "all Chief of Medical staff carry higher override clearance for computer functions than anyone else aboard ship, including the ship's captain."

Jim thinks he might throw up, and beside him he sees Spock stiffen and then attempt to overlay a second set of commands on the first. He won't have the time to write a new program completely, though, and they both know it.

"Don't you dare, McCoy!" he shouts into the comm, as he sees the physician hesitate briefly. Bones knows better, he knows better – but he's primarily a doctor, not a ranking officer, for a reason; he takes the vow to do no harm as applying to him both directly and indirectly. "If they take the _Enterprise_ they'll have the firepower to destroy an entire planet and more!"

Jim holds his breath as the physician meets his eyes, haunted. Rhanat regards them both for a minute, and then with a knowing leer yanks one of the civilians to her feet by her hair and aims his hand phaser at her head.

She can't be more than four or five years old. Dark curly ringlets and blue eyes, clutching a dingy stuffed rabbit to her chest and sobbing from sheer terror.

Jim closes his eyes, because he knows in that instant that they're all lost.

"Will it be a quick death, Doctor, or shall I simply turn the phaser setting to disrupt, and let her skin and organs slowly disintegrate?" Rhanat asks in a bored tone. "Pretty little thing, isn't she? Perhaps I will just leave her alive, and send her back to her mother and father after a few months in our care."

"All right, I'll give you the damn codes, just don't touch her! Chief Medical Officer override alpha-three-three-alpha-zero-three, secondary confirmation three-zero-one-three-zero-three!"

It shouldn't be a surprise, but just the same Jim wants to scream and plead for someone – anyone – to stop this from happening, but he can't in his heart blame Bones for not wanting someone else's daughter to suffer like that. It's what makes McCoy who he is, and it's what Jim loves about him; but now it's a liability, and the universe is in danger because once the Romulans have control over the Enterprise's computer…

The older man looks right at him on the screen, eyes haunted, as his hands lower dejectedly from his head to linger at his sides, where they form tight fists.

Jim looks back at him, for the first time in his life wondering what they're going to do now.

"I'm sorry, Jim," the physician whispers, and he nods numbly.

It's not until McCoy looks up with a fierce grin at his captors that Jim realizes he wasn't apologizing for the override codes – he's apologizing for what he's about to do.

One clenched hand opens to reveal a corked test tube. "I don't hold with killing, but have a dose of your own bio-weapon, Rhanat," the doctor spits.

The next instant the tube shatters on the floor.

Blue lights immediately flood the laboratory, klaxons wailing to indicate a biocontaminant alert before the screen flickers and then shuts off due to immediate emergency lockdown of the facility on the planet below.

Jim collapses into his chair, staring at the blank screen. For a minute, no one moves or speaks, the silence only filled by mechanical whirrs and beeps from the Bridge stations. He looks over at Spock, who is silently staring at the blank screen, equally shocked and horrified at what had just happened.

Then a chirp fills the silence, and a familiar voice scratches through a patchy comm-channel.

_"…you read. Enterprise, do you read, please come in."  
><em>  
>Uhura knows him well enough by now to only scoot out of the way as he leaps the dividing rail and pounds the intercom switch so hard it almost snaps off. "Bones?"<p>

_"Sorry 'bout that, Captain,"_ the drawl fills the Bridge, and Jim can actually hear the collective sigh of relief. _"Wasn't any way to tell you we'd all been vaccinated against the virus a few hours ago; may get a little puny-lookin' but no one's gonna die from it. Our green-blooded friends, though…" _

Weak-kneed, he collapses into the spare chair at the communications console. "You are a dead man when you get back on board, Doctor," he finally says, grinning shakily at a relieved Uhura, who gives him a smile and a thumbs-up. "Don't ever scare me like that again."

_"No promises," _is the flippant reply._ "Was the only – Chapel, for heaven's sake, woman, go make yourself useful, I'm fine! – only way to get rid of 'em. Couldn't let 'em have the ship, could I? You'd murder me in my sleep." _

Jim would swear he hears a muttered "One of us may still do so," from Spock's station, but he'll never be able to prove it.

"The civilians?"

_"Got the vaccine as well, Captain. Wasn't about to let any of 'em in here without it. We're nearing a breakthrough; give us five hours and we'll be ready to beam back aboard for a full report." _This is McCoy in official mode; Jim heard the transition from shaky to confident from the moment the connection was made.

"Five hours and no more, Doctor, unless we don't get some power from Engineering by then," he returns, because he can be as professional as the other man even if inside he's limp with relief over that fool stunt. "Enterprise out. Uhura, contact Engineering and as soon as we have power back to the transporters get a security detachment and the next shift of medical down there for reinforcements."

"Aye, sir."

And he finally allows himself to breathe again.

* * *

><p>Five hours later, despite Scotty's gloomy predictions, they have enough power to transport reinforcements to their weary medical teams below. The three Romulans are most likely not going to survive the next day, but they're placed in quarantine in a secure facility on the surface under Starfleet guard and given medical care anyway; McCoy's orders, Jim is told when he beams down later that evening to check on their progress. While repairs are being made to his ship, he and Spock are vaccinated and don protective suits to beam down within the isolation of the secure research domes, safely out of the danger zone for any contagion just in case.<p>

The labs are flurrying with activity, as they have been since they arrived ten days ago, because the plague stops for no man and people's lives literally depend upon them working quickly to diagnose, research, treat, prevent. He knows his medical staff has been working around the clock, along with volunteers from other departments, to combat the effects of the virus and try to inoculate those lucky enough to not yet be affected. When this is all over, he's already planning to enforce a mandatory shore leave on the planet of their choice in repayment for everything they've done. Now that they'll need to dock somewhere for a bit for repairs, it just makes the whole process a bit easier.

He sidesteps a scurrying experimental team, who are too busy to more than give him a half-attentive glance; but of course he doesn't care – it shows they're busy with far more important things than acknowledging their captain's presence. That's his crew. All in all, it looks to be a good day's work for his people, and he couldn't be prouder.

His satisfaction turns into dismay when he reaches the command central of the medical operations to find his Head Nurse looking somewhere between frazzled and a nervous breakdown complete with hysterics.

"Nurse Chapel," Spock speaks up from behind him, and he's no idiot – he sees the slight blush that colors the woman's cheeks. Chapel's one-sided but short-lived crush on Spock was a bit of a problem during the first five-year mission; since then the nurse has seen sense and moved on, but a bit of nostalgic longing remains obviously. But right now, the deep, soothing tones of their First Officer are exactly what she needs, because she relaxes slightly at the sight of them.

"Mr. Spock, Captain," she says, a little flustered.

"Report," he inquires kindly.

"Sir…" She shouldn't be hesitating; it's not in her no-nonsense nature. That throws up an immediate red flag in his mind. "For the most part," she continues hastily, at his searching look, "the plans are proceeding on target. The virus has slowed its mutation rate to manageable time frames; the vaccine which Dr. McCoy's research team developed late last night appears to have been effective on everyone who received it, and will still be effective against new strains of the virus."

The wording is odd, and that's what arrests his attention. "Everyone who received it?" he repeats, tamping down on a feeling of unease.

Chapel turns a shade paler. "Yes, sir."

Spock's one step ahead of him, and his tone bespeaks of a month's gamma shift duty to anyone who doesn't give him a straight answer. "And who, exactly, did _not_ receive it, Nurse?"

Ice settles in his gut for a second at her hesitation, and he closes his eyes. "Tell me Dr. McCoy did not 'forget' to vaccinate himself."

"No, sir! He was the first test subject, sir, insisted upon it," Chapel hastily reassures him, suitably horrified at the idea and apparently offended that Jim thinks she'd allow that to happen in the first place.

A knot of tension loosens in his shoulders. "Who then, and how did they get overlooked?" he asks quietly.

"Captain…it was a little chaotic here the last twelve hours, and to be honest we don't know how he was overlooked; assumptions were made incorrectly and the patient himself never said a word so we never gave it a second thought to double-check that everyone had been."

It wasn't an excuse, but it was a reason; Jim recognizes that, and he knows they did everything they could. "Nurse."

Chapel looks away for a second, guilt darkening their blueness into a depressive gray. "Security Chief Giotto, Captain. Somehow we missed him when we were inoculating everyone, and he said nothing."

"I'll kill him," he growls. "Carelessness like that is inexcusable –"

"Sir, I doubt he even realized that we'd been vaccinating everyone; he was so busy making sure his men were doing their jobs, crowd control and patrolling the perimeter of the safe zones, keeping the press and officials away...we'd never have been able to work as quickly as we have without him," Chapel interjects, and he smiles sadly at her vehement loyalty. She's a perfect match for Bones in every way. "I don't think he's slept any more than Dr. McCoy since we beamed down ten days ago – and that's about three hours at a stretch every few days."

He pales at the revelation that his people have been exhausting themselves to that extent without his knowledge or sanction, while he's been sitting up in his ship conducting ship's business and actually eating and sleeping regularly. It's appalling; he'd have been down here had he known the true extent of the stress for his personnel. Even he can load hypospray cartridges and run basic scanner tests…heck, he could have at least taken dictation and made lunch runs.

Spock looks no less appalled, and a little offended to think he missed out on important scientific action. "Where is the doctor, Nurse Chapel?"

"In his 'office'," she sighs, gesturing across the lab to a closed door. "He's beating himself up over Giotto. We've more than a good chance of pulling him through, simply because we have the facilities and are extrapolating an antivirus from the vaccine now that it's stopped mutation; if he can hang on for another twenty-four hours he will be fine."

"Odds?" he asks hoarsely, and it's weird because he doesn't even really get along with Cupcake but he's so going to miss him if the guy doesn't pull through.

"About sixty-forty as it stands, I'd say," she replies. "Most of the patients don't drop into critical condition until after the twenty-four hour contagion mark, so it might even be better chances than that if we can find that antivirus as soon as possible. And he's in top physical condition, which seems to help in the cases we've studied. He has a better than average chance, sir."

"And Bones?"

"He's heartbroken, Captain," Chapel replies bluntly. "He takes his oath more seriously than any other physician I've ever worked with. He's blaming himself because he infected this room with the virus when the Romulans attacked us; he had no way of knowing Giotto wasn't inoculated but that's not stopping him from blaming himself. And you know how close they are, sir."

He does know; it's a friendship born out of mutual irritation with one Jim Kirk. It's a not-really-vicious cycle by now; Cupcake tries to talk him out of going on away missions, doesn't succeed, Jim gets sick/injured/propositioned/sneezed on/whatever, lands in Sickbay, Bones yells and swears for a half-hour, cue the latest hypospray of choice, Jim whines and gripes, Cupcake smirks over the bio-bed and agrees that his captain is a moron, they all three have a celebratory drink and the cycle starts over next mission.

Bones was brilliant today; nothing else would have stopped the Romulans from taking the ship as easily as the doctor's solution and with as minimal damage. It's not his fault that his idiot of a security chief forgot to come in for his vaccine – and if Cupcake lives Jim's going to give him hell over it. After he hugs him. Or hits him. Or maybe both.

Chapel's looking at him a little strangely, and he nods. Understanding and unspoken answers flicker between them for a second. Then, "See that we're not disturbed until I say, for anything other than a red alert," he orders, and doesn't wait to hear her acknowledgement. He knows he has it; Chapel's a keeper, more for the fact that she worships the ground her CMO walks on than anything else. Bones needs someone who can take his crap and dish it right back at him. Plus she makes an amazing Irish coffee. He should totally marry her. Or at least Bones should, and he can just get in on the benefits.

Spock's placidly following in his wake, diverting anyone who wants their captain's attention, and that's another thing he doesn't have to see to know is happening. What he ever did without these wonderful people in his life he has no idea, and it doesn't bear thinking about.

"Hey, BONES," he bellows just before he strides through the unlocked door into the cool, clean-smelling little room.

A crash greets him, and belatedly remembers it's not exactly the best idea to holler at someone who's been running on caffeine overdose and not much else for a fortnight. Spock's eyes close, which means he's hiding the fact that he's rolling them like a human at his captain's idiotic tendencies.

He ignores Spock and cautiously, silently moves around a partition – right into the business end of a Starfleet-issue phaser.

"Whoa, whoa!" One practiced move, and his wrist cleanly knocks the arm upward, other hand removing the weapon from a set of icy fingers. "Easy, it's just me and Spock," he adds, concerned.

His Chief Medical Officer looks like he's gone four rounds with a Romulan and lost every one of them. Barely-shaven and chalky white under the stubble, eyes surrounded by almost black circles and lines of sheer weariness, McCoy looks by far the worst off of all the medical personnel Jim's seen since he beamed down. The physician is swaying on his feet, breathing heavily in relief that it's just them and not more Romulans, and Jim realizes that even though McCoy's a Starfleet officer, he's rarely been deeply involved in combat missions and as such this has to be a shock to an already overtaxed system.

"Sorry. Thought one of those renegade hobgoblins had escaped or somethin', don' rightly know what ah was thinking…" the man murmurs, weaving listlessly out of Jim's grip and sinking down on the nearest article of furniture, which fortunately happens to be a small sofa. His normally smooth accent is harshly pronounced, as it always is when Bones is exhausted (or drunk, but that's not the case now). "Been a _long_ day, Jim."

"Long ten days, more like," he agrees quietly, and moves to sit beside his CMO and friend. A coffee cup, half-filled, sits on the small table in front of them; obviously, judging from the spreading puddle of milky-brown, his entrance had startled the physician in the middle of his latest stimulant binge. Jim's gone without sufficient sleep and too many stimulants for over five days before – never ten – and just that was enough to make him feel pretty sick for a long time afterwards. If Chapel was telling the truth, Bones is going to be crashing here soon and there's nothing they can do except brace for the fallout and be here when he does.

He flicks a glance at Spock, and after all these years no words are needed; the Vulcan gives a curt nod and exits the room.

"Hey," he says softly, putting a hesitant hand on a shoulder rigid with strung-out tension. "It's okay. You did good today, Bones." A dry snort is his only answer, but he continues, poking cautiously at the blank exterior; it's only a matter of time before he finds the chink in the armor and can exploit it. "I mean it; you saved everyone in this lab and the _Enterprise_ – and I can't thank you enough for that. You took care of my people, Bones; and that's all I'll ever ask of you."

McCoy slumps slightly in his seat, staring at his hands which rest loosely between his spread legs. "Fool Security Chief didn't get himself vaccinated," he mutters bleakly.

"Chapel says he'll pull through if he doesn't give up in the next twenty-four hours," he answers matter-of-factly; McCoy wouldn't appreciate platitudes or absolution, not right now at least. "And we both know he's too stubborn to do that; he won't get to tear us a new one about this mess if he does."

McCoy says nothing, barely even blinks, and that's way more worrying to Jim than if the guy had blown up over Giotto's rashness.

"Remind me to get him the biggest, most sickeningly girly stuffed animal they have on Starbase Eleven," he says, picturing that with a smirk. "We'll be headed there as soon as the plague is under control here, and your whole medical team is going to get the best shore leave I can squeeze out of Starfleet."

"They deserve it," is the absent reply.

He shakes his head, and wraps an arm around the physician's shoulders, tugging slightly back towards him. "_You_ deserve it. Running yourself ragged down here with next to no help – why didn't you tell us how bad it was? I'd have beamed down myself, and so would Spock. Even if all we did was basic triage it would have helped long enough for you to eat a meal or sleep for a while."

"Didn' want you or yer Vulcan shadow chancin' gettin' this virus 'til we had a sure-fire antidote, moron," McCoy murmurs tiredly, and the words make his throat clench. "Too valu'ble to that danged ship of yours."

That's the last straw, and he firmly blinks the tears away from his eyes. Ten years ago no one in the world other than Chris Pike even cared he _existed_; and now? Whatever Destiny had taken from him at his birth and the Battle of Vulcan, she's made up for it with incredible people like this one prickly but so unselfish man. He doesn't deserve this, not in a million years or a million lifetimes – and yet he has it, and it humbles him.

"Ah'm sorry about the override codes, Jim," is the next rambling comment that drops, the words increasingly slow.

"Don't sweat it," he manages to choke out, and squeezes the arm around Bones's shoulders hard. "No harm done; and that's your oath, isn't it – do no harm. You…you did good." He bites his lip, trying to regain control of his emotions because this really isn't going to help at all, but is saved from having to temporarily by Spock's re-entrance.

"Repairs are underway aboard the _Enterprise_, sir. Mr. Scott will not require us for at least twelve hours. I have taken the liberty of gathering seventy volunteers from among the Engineering and Sciences departments to rotate out with the personnel here if their skills permit; this cannot be permitted to continue if we wish to prevent exhaustive collapse."

"Thanks, Spock. Bones," he leans forward a little, trying to re-attract a wandering attention. "I want you to come back to the ship and sleep tonight, spend at least eight hours off this planet."

"Outta the question," is the immediate reply, and he frowns at the dismissal until he realizes Bones really is so out of it he probably has no idea what he's actually saying. "Too much work ta do, gotta get that anti-virus perfected before anyone else _dies_…"

"Bones, seriously," he repeats, catching at the limp hand that dangles between the physician's legs. It's as cold as ice, and when he slides a finger subtly over the pulse point he can feel the unsteady, fluttering beat of exhaustion thrumming too rapidly below rough skin. "Don't force me to make it an order or get Chapel to sedate you."

That gets a small reaction, a clenching of fearsome eyebrows and a glare that could demolecularize durasteel. "Don't you dare," McCoy snarls, free hand clenching into a fist. "Giotto's gonna be goin' through seven hells before it gets better – and that's if he lives – and ah'm not gonna go back to that flyin' tin can and eat and sleep while he's puking his guts out and trying to endure the pain of acute renal failure!"

This is it, the breaking point; Jim's eyes dart over a blue-clad shoulder to Spock, who looks slightly uncomfortable but edges closer to the worn couch. Jim hates himself for what he's about to do, but he's a master manipulator and he knows better than anyone else what a man will do when eaten up by guilt and grief.

"Why?" he demands coolly. "You can't do anything to help him, now can you; seeing as you couldn't even seem to vaccinate him along with everyone else down here."

Bones swears at him, little surprise there, and he's braced and ready to roll with it when his friend decides to deck him one…but the blow doesn't come, doesn't even start. McCoy looks at him, and Jim's heart breaks at what he sees in those dark hazel eyes.

"Ah'm sorry, Jim…so sorry…" The physician's head drops limply into his hands – he doesn't seem to realize one of them is still caught fast in Jim's – and he begins to tremble, shuddering as shock and exhaustion finally catch up to him.

Jim's a bit scared now, and a little horrified, because that's not the reaction he was trying to produce and he's never seen it before in his life from this most stubborn and strong of people. He has no idea what to do, except to scrunch closer, resting his chin on a shaking shoulder, and hold on for all he's worth as a man he respects more than anyone else on his ship almost literally falls apart in front of him.

Lucky for him, Spock is standing right behind them, and in nine years he's slowly gotten over his (pretty legitimate, actually) phobia of mental contact and physical touch with any being but a pure Vulcan one. Jim feels a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and sees the other come to rest on McCoy's, completing the circle. Bit by tiny bit, the tension leeches from his body, and he can fairly feel it doing the same to the man who's still shaking in his arms, face hidden in his hands. A sense of peace, of calm, of _rightness_, slowly begins to seep in through the choking cloud of emotions, leaving only acceptance and tranquility in its wake.

The sheer beauty of Spock's 'Vulcan voodoo' is interrupted by McCoy's head lifting from his hands at last, haunted eyes sharpening in what he pretends is annoyance but what they can both see is actually gratitude. "Who invited you inta mah head, Spock?" the doctor grumbles, exhaustion coating the accent with an even thicker drawl than ten minutes previously.

"Yup, open house in McCoy's brain," Jim chirps with a small grin. "Enter at your own risk; the owner isn't responsible for any damages incurred."

He's never been more glad to get a swat upside the back of the head, and never been more embarrassed to be pulled into an impromptu hug there on the small couch. Spock scoots well out of arm's reach just in case he's next, and he laughs at the illogical-gestures-do-not-compute-now-rebooting-brain expression on the Vulcan's face.

No more words are said by any of them; but the beautiful thing is that none are necessary. He and Bones, and Spock too – the three of them are a power to be feared, a force to be reckoned with, a trio whose destinies are so intertwined not even the Fates themselves dare attempt unwinding them.

Whatever their lives might have been, Jim wouldn't trade it with what he has now. Not for anything in this, or in any other, universe.


End file.
